NOT THOSE LIPS

Not Those Lips
A Tatoo Shop
Venice Beach, CA
December 1995

 I contemplated getting a tattoo.  Back then, they were just beginning to gain a renewed popularity with men but not with women.  So I thought about getting one for the purpose of being outrageous, counter-culture and just a bit brazen.

I was going to get something small, on my rear end so no one could really see it, not even me.  But it would be something to give me bragging rights of being just a little out there.  I imagined the surprise of future scenarios in the nursing home when a nurse noticed my tattoo for the first time and I became the gossip amongst the staff as a woman who was once wild.

I thought about getting a portrait of Prince Charles (I still don’t know why I liked this idea), a feather (Light as a feather) or a fly (again, something to be just a bit different and defiant: butterflies were the only tatooes women were getting).

I told my brother about the idea.  He was 20 at the time and I was 35.  We both agreed to get a tattoo.  “I will if you will”’ we both pledged to each other after a night of too many drinks.

So a month after, I caught up with my brother again and he said, “Let’s see what you got.”

“Got what”, I asked, trying to figure out how I lost this thread of the conversation.

“Tattoo, your tattoo.  I’ll show you mine”, he said as he dropped his pants and showed me a vine tattooed around his entire thigh.  It was elaborate and intricate in design and as I examined the details, he asked, “OK, so what did you get?’

“Me, I’m not getting a tattoo,” I told him, a bit confused as to why he thought I was getting on in the first place.

“What!! I nearly passed out in pain for this one and you didn’t get a tattoo.  That was the deal, remember?” He was annoyed with me.

“Remember what”, I asked.

“We both agreed to get a tattoo last month when we were at McGlinchey’s.”

I vaguely remembered the conversation. “That was drunk talk”, I told him “you never hold anyone responsible for drunk talk.”  I spoke with an authority as if I may have done some research on this actual topic.

The conversation ended with him feeling a bit betrayed and I felt a bit relieved for coming up with some sort of rational argument for my reneging on our deal.  But I was bothered that he got a tattoo because I had suggested the idea in the first place.

So a few months later, I traveled to Venice Beach, CA with a friend of mine.  We were walking the boardwalk when I notice a tattoo shop.

“Hey’ do you mind, let’s stop in to see what these guys can do.” I suggested without any real interest in his response.

“Are you still on that tattoo idea? Let it go.  You are too old for a tattoo,” Doug tells me.

Well, that statement rattled my defiance and rekindled my stupid idea to get a tattoo.

“Keep walking, I’m going to check it out.  I’ll catch up to you,” I told him with a defiance that was ridiculous. And I go into the shop by myself. Other than the employees, no one else was in the shop.

“What can I do for you”, asked the man with the bald, tattooed head, Doc Martin boots, black tee shirt, black jeans, tattoos arms and one gold, glistening tooth.

“Oh, I’m just looking for something small to put on my rear end”, I told him “I don’t want anything too visible, something just a few people will see. “ I rummaged through his bin of possible designs.

“Why don’t you get something tattooed on your lips”, he asked me with a devious chuckle.  The other two made laughter uproariously.  And I don’t get it.  I touch my lips and told him that I didn’t want anything on my face.

“Not those lips”, he laughed with a mean spiritedness that sent me charging right out of that shop before the three of them grabbed me and tattooed all sorts of thing all over all sorts of spots on my body that were not open for viewing by the general public.

As I charged out of the store, Doug was waiting for me across the street.

“OK, lets’ go.  Keep moving”, I barked at him.

“What happened in there? What’s wrong”, he asked?

“Nothing”, I told him defensively, “Nothing.  I’m just ready to go. I’ll tell you when we are far enough away.”

He laughed, "You got the shit kicked out of you, didn’t you.  I can tell.  You got the shit kicked out of you.” He delighted in this outcome.

And I did!  And I put the idea of getting a tattoo to rest on that day.

Ten years later, however, my brother and his sons are discussing Brian’s tattoo.  I told my nephews that I was once thinking of getting something tattooed on my rear end.  I asked them if they had any suggestions.  The 12 year old suggested:  “GET’ER DONE” and the 10 year old suggested: “OBJECT IS LARGER THAN IT APPEARS.”

Again, I reconfirmed my idea to give up on getting a tattoo. I am too old.